He stopped to light a cigar, first delicately biting the tip off and swallowing it.
"You've stunned the world into at least a temporary peace," he continued, exhaling a great wreath of smoke. "Hostilities of any sort have ceased in most areas of the globe. It's as if the world were holding its collective breath, waiting to see if you're going to conquer us, lend technical aid or ask for colonization rights."
He smiled at L'Guan's startled expression. "My summation of yesterday's Situation Report from our State Department."
"Surely the masses know nothing of this?" asked Bakunin with a tinge of alarm.
"The 'masses,'" said Montanoya, slowly hissing the s's, "know nothing, Colonel. You can rest assured—-for now."
The Russian's bourbon and spring water stopped halfway to his lips. "Surely sir, you—the United States—don't intend to unilaterally reveal all of this to an unprepared world!"
"Maybe your half aren't prepared, Colonel"—the National Security Advisor smiled thinly—"but ours is. So are the Chinese. And with a neo-populist instead of a plutocrat in the White House, look for that announcement to come soon—and forcefully.
"You may have to give up the Black Sea dacha, Colonel.
"Actually, Zahava," he said, turning back to the Israeli, "I had to turn people away from this reception to cull down to the hundred or so Vigilant could accommodate. You'd think more people would have sense enough not to let a computer scatter their atoms across space." More smoke billowed toward the transparent bubble that was the ceiling.
"Good evening, Admiral, Captain, everyone," spoke an assured voice.
They turned to greet L'Wrona. A black-clad commando officer, about L'Wrona's age but taller, was with him. Both wore duty uniforms with sidearms.
"Subcommander N'Tal V'Arta, Fleet Commando," said L'Wrona, introducing him. "My second cousin."
L'Guan nodded at V'Arta, then turned to L'Wrona. "How stands the Fleet, Commander My Lord Captain L'Wrona?" he asked cheerfully of the Watch Officer.
"All quiet, sir. Nice party." He nodded, listening for a moment to the strings. "Different music, but very, very nice.
"We just looked in on our patient," he continued, referring to McShane. "He's quite chipper. Fleet Surgeon says he can rejoin us tomorrow."
"Just as well," said John. "He was threatening to break out of there."
"You don't have to tell us," said Implacable's XO with a smile. "We caught him prowling the reaction force ready room on Six Deck. Had to haul him back to sick bay.
"We'd best get back to the bridge. Good evening all, Admiral, Captain."
L'Wrona and V'Arta melted into the crowd.
"And I musn't neglect my other guests," said L'Guan. "You'll excuse me?"
He wasn't gone more than a few seconds before Harrison turned to D'Trelna. "'Commander My-Lord-Captain L'Wrona'?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Ah, yes." The Captain sighed. "The Admiral is an Imperial. Ancient titles are important to that faction. They'd like more of them."
He flagged down a steward—they were less attentive with the Admiral gone—relieving the man of an entire platter of luscious-looking meat canapes. "My First Officer is heir to a great tradition," he said between munches. " 'Lord-Captain of the Imperial Guard, Defender of the Outer Marches, Margrave of U'Tria.'
"The titles are mostly courtesy. The last Imperial Guardsmen fell millennia ago, the Outer Marches haven't been heard from since POCSYM bid his creators farewell and the attack on U'Tria Nine—L'Wrona's home—precipitated this war.
"Care for a canape?" he offered, passing the plate toward his friends.
"You ate them all," said Bakunin bluntly, thrusting it back.
"Oh."
D'Trelna put the platter on a table. "The titles convey the right to lead the Fleet Commando, if it ever should fight as a unit again. The Commando traces its origins back to T'Nil's Task Force Forty-Seven Marines—the unit that seized Imperial Communications and later formed the core of his own guard.
"But the war's just about over. I doubt L'Wrona will get to exercise his birthright."
Admiral L'Guan reappeared. Slipping up to D'Trelna, he whispered urgently in the other's ear, walking quickly away even as the Captain nodded.
"Duty calls." D'Trelna sighed, putting down his glass and stepping toward the arched entrance way.
"Seems to be calling others, too," said John. They all followed his gaze. A steady trickle of K'Ronarin officers were exiting as unobtrusively as possible, their departure sparked by a hurried whisper from L'Guan.
"Captain, we're almost family," John said with a hurt look. "Level with us."
"Really. I can't." He looked embarrassed.
"Afraid you'll frighten the natives, J'Quel?" asked Sutherland, smiling sympathetically.
"All right. Come with me. I'll explain outside." They passed a mixed group of European and Asian diplomats listening attentively to a crimson-uniformed Survey officer.
Gaining the corridor, D'Trelna broke into a brisk trot. Startled, the others ran after him.
"Revenge's watch crew just signaled 'Intruder Alert,'" he explained hurriedly. "We're assembling a force on the Hangar Deck. POCSYM will transport."
In five minutes they were on the Hangar Deck. Some of the hastily gathered commandos were still fastening their warsuits when L'Guan ordered POCSYM to "Transport!"
The Terrans never knew if they'd been included because of design or haste. Regardless, they faced Revenge's surprised bridge crew with two dozen Vigilant commandos.
"Not here, Captain!" K'Raoda called urgently from the command tier. "The mindslave area!"
D'Trelna cursed. "How many S'Cotar?" he demanded.
"I don't know, sir. Fleet hasn't installed S'Cotar detectors yet. We just sealed the bridge and called for help."
"POCSYM," the Captain snarled into his communicator. "Think you can get us to the right coordinates this time?"
They were in the corridor outside the now-sealed door of the mindslave room. Only D'Trelna had been there before.
"No time to burn our way in," he grumbled. "They're probably after the brainpods. Kill the mindslaves and this ship's just so much scrap metal.
"Pass me a blastpack."
Motioning everyone back, the Captain placed the charge. Setting the timer, he ran to join them behind the corridor's sheltering curve.
"Temperature in brainpods rising into critical," reported K'Raoda, worriedly eyeing a bridge monitor. "They must be using a semi."
The explosion preempted any response.
D'Trelna charged through the still-glowing doorway, pistol at the ready. He froze at the railing, looking down into the room, stunned. The commandos halted behind him.
"Are you crazy, man?" he shouted, bounding down the stairs and knocking a big semiportable blaster from McShane's hands. The weapon had gouged a hole deep into the nearly seamless access hatch set in the rear bulkhead.
The older man stood mute, staring at the wall. John and Zahava made their way through the commandos to his side.
"Bob," said John softly, laying a gentle hand on his mentor's shoulder.
"I gave my word." McShane finally looked at them. "My only regret, Captain, is that I failed." His eyes bored into D'Trelna's own. "It's wrong and you know it."
The Captain averted his eyes. "Look ..."
"Don't tell me you need this ship, J'Quel," said McShane. "You've wiped out the main S'Cotar force—your own Intelligence says so. Once you find their home world, you can mop up with your regular forces."
"Bob, I—"
"How do we differ from the S'Cotar, J'Quel?"
Caught off guard, the K'Ronarin stumbled. "Well . . . why, why we're human, of course."
"Isn't it rather the attributes of our humanity—love, compassion, mercy—which distinguish us from other intelligences, Captain?"
"Professor, I must insist that you—"
"How then, Captain," pressed McShane coldly, "how then are we human if we enshrine hatred, eschew compas
sion and remain merciless in the face of such unmitigated suffering as is here?" He jerked a thumb at the brainpod area. "Tell me, J'Quel," he asked quietly. "I'm listening."
"Magnificent," breathed Sutherland, high atop the stairs.
"POCSYM," said D'Trelna, "transport Mr. McShane back to Vigilant's sick bay. Me as well. Return the rest of our force to Vigilant's Hangar Deck."
* * * *
A few hours later, while McShane was under close guard, someone who knew how to use a blastpack—L'Guan was never able to find out who—finished the job, commuting the mindslaves' sentence of eternal torment to one of sweet oblivion.
John and Zahava had a suspect, though. Confronted with his name months later, McShane would only smile inscrutably and say, ' 'The triumph of decency over duty is a rare and glorious thing."
Chapter 19
"When you asked for this meeting, Captain," said Admiral L'Guan, looking severely at D’Trelna. "I wasn't aware that Professor McShane would be present."
Bob, much his old self, sat between Zahava and John. Across the table, D'Trelna and L'Wrona flanked their Admiral, facing the Terrans.
"Fleet Surgeon has certified Professor McShane as recovered, sir, and his unfortunate actions aboard Revenge the result of stress." The Captain met his superior's hard stare with one of pure innocence.
"And," he continued before the Admiral could press him, "it's because of Bob—Professor McShane's experience with the mindslaves that we're here."
"Really?" drawled L'Guan, raising an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"As the . . .ah, 'brainstrips'"—Bob lingered distastefully over the word—"used my mind, Admiral, so, it seems did I use theirs." His voice had regained its vibrancy.
"In some way the melding of my mind with theirs lent me a heightened mental acuity. I saw new interrelations—new possibilities—things which escaped me before."
"Such as?"
"Such as this war is not over. Your fleet and my planet may yet be in grave danger."
"Specifics, please," demanded L'Guan tensely, eyes searching for clues in Bob's impassive face.
"Lying in your wondrous sick bay, Admiral, I kept going over the events of the past weeks. Especially the part played in them by humanity's benevolent savant, POCSYM Six."
McShane paused, hands patting his empty shirt pockets. D'Trelna passed the professor a cigar and lit it. Bob grunted his thanks. Puffing, he leaned back. " 'Essentia non suntmulti-plicanda praeter necessitatum,' Admiral," he continued expansively.
"We turned in the translators last week, Bob," reminded Zahava gently.
"Sorry. 'Fact need not be multiplied beyond necessity.' Or so said William of Ockham some time ago. We've taken his statement as one of the basic axioms of rationality-—dubbed it 'Ockham's Razor.'"
"Fascinating, Mr. McShane," L'Guan said with mild sarcasm, his patience slipping. "But how does this apply—"
"POCSYM has weaved a tangled web of deceit. Rather than facts, he's multiplied lies beyond necessity. And like all liars, he's become ensnared in his own web. Listen to me." He held up a hand as L'Guan looked ready to interrupt.
"One. By his own account POCSYM was able to scan Implacable, identify her crew as K'Ronarin and place us aboard her in the vicinity of Mars. Yet this same entity was unable to detect one small shipload of aliens who then landed on Earth unopposed and established their base.
"Two. He's told us that the S'Cotar wanted very badly to capture Earth. Why? Not for the planet itself, but because of POCSYM. Yet, again by his own admission, POCSYM's only unusual ability is that of molecular transport—a capability the S'Cotar have through telekinesis. Why not just drop a planet-buster or biophage us?
"Three. POCSYM delayed coming to the aid of Implaca-ble's ground force. Why? Because, he assured us, his systems had been largely inactive for centuries. Systems which had not more than hours before transported us safely to Implacable—a complex operation surely requiring more than a few nonsom-nolent circuits.
"I'm sure you can each think of other examples—the raid on Nasqa, for example. But that's enough for me," McShane concluded, leaning back in his chair. "POCSYM's hiding something. And we'd better find out what before it kills us."
"Circumstantial evidence, Professor," said L'Guan after a moment, visibly relaxing. "POCSYM is very complex—almost human. And very, very old. You've got to expect inconsistencies."
"Inconsistencies certainly, sir," said D'Trelna, picking up the argument. "But not demonstrable falsehoods."
John couldn't recall Implacable's Captain ever being so well turned out, not even for the reception. His boots shone, his pants and shirt were clean and pressed, campaign ribbons, battlestars and two valor medals hung over and from his right breast pocket. He still wore the regulation long-barreled blaster, but the butt was inlaid with semiprecious stones and nestled in a gleaming black leather holster.
"'Demonstrable falsehoods'?" repeated the Admiral slowly, frowning.
"I've had Subcommander K'Raoda checking POCSYM's bonafides, sir, using Revenge's memory cells."
"And?"
"All references to the POCSYM series require special access codes—codes which may be in Archives but certainly aren't with the Fleet. K'Raoda reports that any attempt to bypass the authentication system would scrub the needed data."
"So?" The Admiral shrugged. "Naturally, information concerning a matter transport system would be guarded."
"Yes, sir. But the reference to POCSYM wasn't found under 'Matter Transport.'"
"Oh? Under what, then?"
'"Biofab."'
There was a long silence. Then the Admiral rose and walked to the armor-glass wall. He stood for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, looking out on a small part of his fleet and the blue world below. Starlight gleamed off the twin comets of his rank, set on his collar.
Turning back toward the table, his lips were pursed, his face thoughtful. "An intact Imperial transport system. A functioning—until recently—mindslaver dreadnought. And now a reference to biofabs. Why is it that we're suddenly, after all these centuries, confronted with every technological excess of the late Empire? Why in this one star system? Speculation, anyone?"
"What is a biofab?" asked John.
"Biofabs," L'Guan said, "were another marvel of the Empire—products of genetic engineering created by a rebel sector to aid its secession. The ultimate product of biological fabrication—hence the term—was a superman: long-lived, resilient, aggressive, each one a genius.
"The traitorous sector governor who created them formed these biofabs into elite shock troops—they'd have eaten our commandos alive—and had them crew her fleet. Can you guess the result?"
"They took over?" speculated the Israeli.
"With a vengeance." The Admiral nodded. "Sterilized half the planets in that sector. Biophaged them to eliminate the inferior species—us—cluttering them. There were exceptions, though. A small number of people were spared to serve the biofabs—as mindslaves.
"It took a decade and fleets of the Revenge class to exterminate that plague. As you might guess, there were and still are rather drastic penalties for performing biofab research."
He turned back to the others. "No speculation?"
"Not enough parts of the puzzle fit yet, Admiral," said John. "But K'Raoda has an unpleasant fact for you."
"As you're aware, sir," the young officer said, "POCSYM has stated that his main installation is beneath the Isle of Manhattan, under one of the largest Terran cities." He paused for effect. "Not true."
"What?! But I've been there. We all have!"
"You were in the central facility, sir," continued K'Raoda, unruffled. "You were not, as were none of us, beneath Manhattan. In fact, you weren't even on Terra."
The Admiral sat silently, beyond surprise.
"Recall, if you would, sir, that only POCSYM would normally know where we were if transported to an unfamiliar location. That's how the ruse is accomplished."
"Can you prove this, K'Raoda?"
"Yes, sir. Revenge has subterranean detectors far superior to our own. Analysis of the area below Manhattan revealed nothing but planetary crust all the way down to the magma."
"Then where is our faithful servant?" asked L'Guan.
"There." They followed where K'Raoda's finger pointed, through the armor glass, at the moon, just beginning its climb from behind the Earth's curve. "Grid eighty-one, Terran reference 'The Lake of Dreams.' Its interior is sensor-blanked by Imperial-grade technology. Analysis of the energy pattern protecting that area shows it to be a larger model of Revenge's shield—the matrixes are identical. Seems POCSYM doesn't want us to look at something."
"How do you know it's POCSYM?" challenged L'Guan.
"At the Captain's request, sir, I had POCSYM transport me back to his operations area, ostensibly to ensure that all of Implacable''s equipment had been returned to the ship. Actually, to try to trace where I was taken."
"Was this effort successful, Captain D'Trelna?"
"It was, Admiral. Using a low-powered snooperbeam, we followed an energy trace directly to a point in that lunar shield. The point breached for a nanosecond under the impetus of a surge."
"Were you able to get any life form readings through the breach?"
"S'Cotar. Several miles distant but numerous."
The Admiral's expression was impassive as he spoke into his communicator. "Captain S'Nar. 'Fleet Alert,' please. Emphasize it's not a drill. Then plot a bombardment pattern for the Terran satellite—get the coordinates from L'Wrona on Implacable." He'd hardly finished before the battle klaxon sounded.
"One further revelation before we adjourn, sir," said McShane, holding up a hand as L'Guan rose. The Admiral sank back into his chair.
"I don't know if I can take any more," he said with a weak grin. "What?"
"We believe we've found the S'Cotar home system," D'Trelna said. The outside view blurred as Vigilant's shield went from meteor to battle force.
"Where?" snapped the Admiral, leaning forward.
The Biofab War Page 13
